Feathers of a Chocobo
by marlinowl
Summary: It's been almost twenty-four hours since Yuna made the speech at Luca. She remembers talking about an era of peace and love, and not to forget those left behind. Yuna soon finds there is a large difference between speaking about it and actually doing it.
1. Prologue

_What would you have done if it was you on that airship? What would you have done; the staff in one hand and in the other vanishing illus__ions of something you hold dear?_

_Nowadays I find it difficul__t to answer that question. I picture myself doing it over and over again, but every time it is the staff that falls into the clouds instead of his fading form. Vindication courses through my veins, but what would I see in his eyes? Resent? Disappointment, maybe? Or even gratitude? Every time the scenario repeats itself before my eyes it is a different emotion each time, and I don't know which one it would have been. Even worse still, I don't know what I would feel about myself. _

_It's the same ethical question again; is it right to kill one person to save a million people? Except in my case, it wasn't just a million. And except in my case, that one person was the one I loved the most. The Summoners' __Pilgrimage is one of sacrifice, after all, and I had long resigned myself to my fate of losing someone close to me at the end. There was a stark difference, though. In the latter, I would be able to join him. In the latter, I wouldn't be left alone._

_I used to be comfortable being morally grey. I was brought up like that, after all. Yevon is all about having infinite shades of grey; who questions sacrificing summ__oners for the people of Spira to enjoy peace? Who questions sealing the souls of people in stone just as a preliminary stage; mere practice before summoners literally kill themselves? In itself, the religion of Yevon reveals its own bigotry by campaigning against the Al Bhed. Maybe it was these shades that made me so reclusive in the first place, so afraid to take risks. But hey, love does crazy things. Love is powerful. And morals come at a roaring second to that power called love._

_Some people call it survivors' guilt, but it is much more complicated than that__. There was an element of choice involved: A choice between doing what was for the best and what I wanted. And I was the one who made him evaporate like a soul, after all. _

_I was the one who scattered his pyreflies as he jumped off the airship._


	2. Outrunning Time

It's the middle of the night. Yuna bolts upright, and it takes a few seconds for her to remember to breathe.

It is raining heavily outside. Again. Ever since Sin's disappearance there has been several instances of peculiar weather; snow falling in Kilika, showers on Bikanel, and thunderstorms on Besaid. Maybe it's because Spira's climate has always been balanced by Sin's presence, or maybe it's for reasons yet to be discovered. Whatever. It doesn't really bother her that much – it's not her job to care.

She sinks back into the comfort of her bed covers, trying to figure out what had woken her. Expelling all the air from her lungs in a long, drawn-out sigh, Yuna presses the back of her hand against her cheek, and it's wet.

It doesn't take long for her to realise what had woken her: yet another dream…about a dream. She can already remember it so well that it has become hard to tell when she's wide awake and reminiscing or asleep and dreaming. The exhaust of the airship blowing past in the wind, her clothes rippling in the slipstream, her fists clenched tightly by her side, desperate to hold on to the moment, unwilling to surrender it to the past.

And it's that moment - his arms locked tightly around her in an embrace, translucent and ghostly. When he steps through her towards his fate with his lips tightly pressed together. Her head is canted at just the right angle, so that she cannot look him directly in the eyes, so that they would not be able to exchange the messages that would make either of them falter, but just so she could make any words tremble on her lips. She can see it now; every detail of his face down to his tanned cheeks, blonde hair and slight wrinkles framing his mouth, parentheses around words she would never hear, words that she would not be around to hear.

_I have got to get out more,_ Yuna finds herself thinking. _Maybe a pet chocobo or something. Normal people don't sit around and think about dying._

And in that same breath a single voice within her subconscious betrays that thought, a voice she has heard several times but never had the courage to acknowledge. _Don't lie to yourself, _it says._ Everybody thinks about dying._

.

_It'__s a memory from when I was about the age of seven. In the grand city of Bevelle, everyone knows one another. Or at least, everyone knew me. It's hard not to be known, being the daughter of a summoner. In fact, summoners are probably the only people in Bevelle that anyone ever gives a damn about._

_Right before__ my father left on his pilgrimage, I slipped out of the house where we, I mean I, lived. It was pretty easy, since all the people I knew were at the gates attending the farewell ceremony, bidding farewell to him._

_Yeah, right. I bet some of them had eulogies already prewritten before that._

_Anyway, it was also pretty easy to filch a handful of Gyshal Greens from the stores. You'd be surprised at the places the smile of a young girl could get you to. Especially when you're wearing a cute dress._

_I made my way to the outskirts of Bevelle, around Lake Macalania. I had heard tell that on occasion, chocobos would come to the lake, the only watering hole for miles. And if you had some Gyshal Greens with you, they'd let you ride them. It was my plan to ride one after my father, to find him, to hug him and to beg him not to leave. That maybe, for one second of my life, we could have a moment where we wouldn't be a summoner and his daughter, just a father and his daughter._

_The large yellow avian was standing on the edge of the lake with its head bowed to the water. I could feel my heart beating a violent tattoo against my ribs, I was aware of every detail at the moment; the glorious tawny plumage of the bird, the crunch of fresh fallen leaves under the sole of my footwear, the solitary drop of sweat running down my back between my shoulder blades. It suddenly became harder to hold onto the vegetables as I prayed with every fibre of my soul that this would succeed._

_The chocobo suddenly turns around so we're looking at each other. "Kweh," it chirps, suddenly intently focussed on the Greens grasped in my hands as though it would save my life. "Kweh," it chirps again._

_I smile shyly – which apparently chocobos are immune to – and hold out my hand, a peace offering, a sign of trust, that at least in one hand I was not carrying a weapon. It's interested, I can tell, as I reach out with my other hand and run my fingers over its back. I didn't even realise I had gotten so close._

_Suddenly, a shot exploded from the trees behind us; the ceremony must have ended. The chocobo immediately flees, a whirlwind of yellow feathers that disappears into the woods without a trace, leaving me standing by the lake with a few feathers from its back. Left alone so I could walk back home, afraid to say anything or afraid of not saying anything, thinking of the chocobo which placed its trust in me, expecting the smallest shred of safety._

_._

Something under the bed makes an odd noise, so Yuna gets off and turns it over. Nestled in a small handkerchief are the three feathers, relics of the very first time her attempts to be a normal person failed. She picks one up to examine it carefully. It is almost visible – the time magic stirring within the fibres. Yuna only knows too well about the Haste effect of using the feather because it's her favourite item to use, because when she runs fast enough, she feels like she can outrace her own thoughts. She was curious though; could the magic outlive time? She squeezes the feather tightly, which promptly vanishes in a cloud of gold sparks and Yuna smiles for the first time in days.

Minutes later, Yuna's coat is gone from the coat rack and she's racing down the gravel path of the village, out the exit, leaving behind a trail of tears that has already become too painful to trace.


	3. Swash and Backwash

_This may sound hilarious coming from me, but what I miss the most about you is talking to you. I imagine running into you at the town square in Luca, even though I don't go there often, greeting you like an old friend because I had utmost conf__idence you would come back. We could talk for a while standing up, I suppose. Then we'd decide to have some lunch at the café and talk over a cup of coffee and I'd still remember how many sugars you preferred to take in yours._

_On the boat back to Besaid, we could talk on the upper deck and you could show me your new blitzball moves. We could talk behind that mast where nobody could see or hear us, because I hate eavesdroppers. We'd talk for hours and hours, even after the boat shuttles back and forth umpteen times, after the moon is as high in the sky as possible and the captain has to kick us off the boat._

_I really want to talk to you, but I don't have the slightest idea what either of us would have to say._

_._

She bullets through the black waters of the sea with powerful movements, dividing the water cleanly in half. _Kick, pull, kick, pull,_ Yuna tells herself, breaking a lazy rhythm so that she strikes the water with unnecessary force, using up what's left of the Haste magic.

Yuna never told him, but the reason why she took up swimming in the first place was because she wanted to play blitzball with him one day. She never really understood the sport; few women did. Wakka would have been a suitable teacher, but there is not much to do in twenty laps of the coast except think and the last thing she wanted to do was to get involved in some emotional conversation about him. She didn't really need that. Luckily for her, Vilucha lived in the hut just next to hers, so it was relatively easy to find another teacher.

As soon as the magic wears off, Yuna stops swimming and floats on her back, panting heavily. Her hair is matted with seawater as she takes a deep, oxygenating breath of air, letting the saline air fill her lungs. She stares up at the star-filled sky as she surrenders herself to the current, allowing the undulating waves to slowly wash her up to shore, and she waits.

.

_I remember that night we had by the lake at Macalania. After we got out of the water, I just sat down in the grass staring at the surface of the lake, rippling deep and ringing with the sound of crickets. I imagined myself walking slowly into the water once again, but this time I would easily go in deeper, my feet scraping against the silt on the riverbed until the water was over my head. __Then, I would maybe look up at the occasional bright flash of pyreflies glimmering over the water, probably the last thing I'd want to see._

_As though you had read my mind, you__ suddenly asked, "What are you thinking about right now?"_

Oh well, no point trying to play it off, _I thought. "Drowning," I said softly. "It would be so quiet and peaceful."_

_You're surprised, I can tell, as you__ speak. "It probably wouldn't be, you know," you started. "Once you're in there, instincts take over. You'd start thrashing and flailing and stuff."_

"_You would," I replied. "Because you're a star blitzball player. A swimmer." A fissure forms between us as my words fall between us, cracking like rocks on the ground.__ I could imagine carefully, deliberately blowing a steady stream of bubbles out my nose, feeling myself sink inch by excruciating inch. "I would just let go."_

_._

The rain had stopped a few minutes before Yuna reached the beach so it was perfectly fine for her to swim, but what she hates is that all the sand is damp and crumbly. She spreads her coat across her usual spot and sits down.

The beach is a quiet place, so quiet that thoughts and tears alike flow freely, components of a two-part geyser with the unusual power of healing. It is her favourite place to be, not because of the silence or tranquillity or scenery, but because it reminds her that the pain of losing someone is like the watching the tide change – sometimes it looks like nothing has changed and the emotion cuts just as deep, then suddenly you can look down and observe how much pain has been eroded.

Yuna shuts her eyes tightly and pinches the bridge of her nose, wondering what made her run all the way down to the beach in the first place. Certainly it wasn't just for a midnight swim. When she opens her eyes, everything is a blur; is it because she's tearing?

And suddenly, with great clarity, she can see herself standing beside him overlooking Luca. He's holding the edges of his lips wide apart in a grotesque grin like a clown, making her laugh. He looks over the edge of the railing and laughs first, a madman's laugh. It's almost comical, but then she follows so they laugh in unison, because underneath the surface of their fronts they're the same type of people: the kind that has to use their emotions to the fullest so they don't drown in them.

As she sits on the beach, she can feel guilt pressing her in the chest, a stone over her heart which squeezes a small giggle past her lips. Curious at what she just did, she tries again, willingly letting the guilt sink comfortably between her lungs to produce an actual laugh, but it's hollow and empty, a cause for alarm. Yuna either doesn't notice or care as she yields to the weight of her own contrition, breaking out into peals of mirthless laughter.

She listens to her insane laughter and wonders, if by sunrise, if it will still be an act.

.

_Maybe that's what we could talk about: You leaving. Any other topic would probably have details I don't honestly wonder about. You probably thought that be leaving, you'd be able to set the both of us free. Surely you know better by now that no matter how far you __go, no matter how far you distance yourself from the person who holds you tight and no matter how many times you say you have to go, if that person still believes you're hers, you'll always be._


End file.
